


Falling Rain

by Fyliwion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Nightmare, PTSD, Panic Attack, Post-Reichenbach, References to Torture, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3878116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyliwion/pseuds/Fyliwion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years later the date is still fresh on both their minds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Rain

He could hear the footsteps before he saw the shadow pass over the slip of light, giving away the presence at his bedroom door. There was a slight irregularness in the gait, a hint of limp, and poor distribution of weight at where the shadow rested.

Sherlock waited for a further sound, but only silence filled 221 B, with a soft patter of raindrops outside the window and clattering onto the fire escape. It was nearly dawn, just shy when the first rays would settle over the city, if not for the storm clouds that roiled over the city.

It was several minutes before the door opened, first a sliver, and then longer yet until the figure stepped upon the threshold. John's movements hardly making a sound as he stood in the faint light, watching and gripping the door frame through the faint curtain of lashes that Sherlock had opened to observed him.

John's breath was haggard, and when he did not leave Sherlock shifted to open them fully and push back his covers.

John shifted, startled, and even in the darkness a faint red tinged his cheeks- although his eyes remained steel. 

Sherlock rested a hand next to him on the edge of the bed. 

_Sit._

Still nothing but endless rain playing in the background, and a faint rumble of thunder drifting over them. The bed dipped as John settled next to him, swaddled in his dressing gown, and taut as an iron. After a moment, when neither of them finding the words to speak, Sherlock moved first.

He caught John's wrist in a smooth movement, and brought his fingers to his own wrist, the same wrist from five years before and let his fingers rest upon his pulse to feel it beating quickly under the man’s touch.

John began to pull back, but Sherlock kept his grip. A moment passed, and he moved the fingers to his jugular instead, still racing, still proving he was quite adamantly alive.

He felt John's fingers twitch, his arm give way, and the man's demeanor change entirely. His shoulder's dropped and a shudder ran through him as his hand fell, and it was Sherlock this time who was startled to feel it move up to brush his shoulder.

They had not spoken, not entirely, of those years in-between.

John knew.

Mycroft had given him most of the details, as it had been necessary after the Magnussan conspiracy, and Sherlock had offered it himself more than once, but with everything that had occurred in the last three years there had never been a moment the man would willingly hear it from the detective’s lips.

Sherlock said nothing, but instead slipped off his nightshirt and sent it to the foot of his bed. The covers followed shortly after as he turned, rolling his shoulders, and letting the man examine what was left of the scars that scattered over them.

He heard the sharp intake of John's breath. He felt him shift again, and then the faintest brush of fingers upon the crisscrossing lines that decorated it. It rested, finally, at the opposite side of where Mary's bullet had cut through.

Only then, the first hint of a tremor decorating the touch.

He was alive. 

They were both still alive. 

A huff. A small bitter laugh. A deep inhale that made Sherlock wonder if he'd be tossed from his own bed in a fit of temper.

Instead he felt a brush of hair, the touch of John's forehead, hands wrapping over his arms and a shuddered breath that ran through the doctor.

A prayer.

_Thank God._

Last year on the fourth there had been on a case. A terrible case that had left them both exhausted, days without sleep, and taken the better part of three weeks. There had been no time to consider the date, no time for past memories to raise their head, and the aftermath of everything else had been so fresh there was no time to dwell on events that had occurred four years before.

The endless rain, and a lull in crime had left them both going mad from boredom, and the date a looming shadow for them both of them. A date that Sherlock found undeleteable, and John refused to discuss.

He turned once John's hold loosened, and he caught him in his arms as the wracking heaving continued. Sherlock wished he'd considered the circumstances earlier, but his own memories had been so forefront he had not measured what the date would do to John.

Had he even willed himself a few more hours, perhaps he would have caught the man’s nightmares earlier, rather than wait until they’d already worked their poison.

Sherlock reached between them, unfastening the belt to John’s dressing gown and helped it slip from man's shoulders. There was neither assistance nor resistance from the other party, merely an allowance as it was pushed away.

Another roll of thunder, and this time a faint flash of lightening somewhere near that illuminated the room. A moment of truth on both their faces, and the return to the soft melody of the rain.

He wrapped John’s fingers around his wrist once more, careful to allow them access to his still racing pulse, before laying them both back onto the pillows and re-positioning the covers.

Perhaps Lestrade would have a case come morning.

Perhaps there would be dreamless sleep, and a sun-washed morning to greet them when they awoke.

Perhaps this was just the first of many changes they would see in the coming months.

They would need to speak about the matter soon. For both their sake, given the time it had taken them to get there.

But, as their breath fell into step and their bodies twined together as two lovers seeking solace…

It would wait for the morrow.  

 


End file.
